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Musaemura Zimunya

Tanaka Chidora Literature Today
Growing up in the village in the late 80s and 90s, Christmas came every year with these inevitable signatures: relatives from all over the country (especially cities and towns) trooping in from the 20th of December; playing kiya, while herding cattle a week before Christmas to gather a little fortune of Zim coins to use on the day; exhibitionist moments (these involved showing off little goodies and Christmas clothes that smelled of the city, and even showing off our classy relatives to those we thought did not have classy relatives!); week-long anxieties concerning the absence of any signs of new Christmas clothes; and more anxieties concerning what to do with our herds of cattle on the day.

Therefore, Christmas never came alone. It came with people. It came with new clothes. It came with food. But it also came with disappointments. Sometimes it left behind new clothes, or city people failed to come, or it came with heavy rains that trapped us inside our houses until the 26th. But the one promise that Christmas kept was that it came. Every year. Every December. It is still coming. Every year. Every December.

There is something different about Christmas. It is the one day we can live for during the whole year like those fellows in “The Dragon Can’t Dance” whose most consistent preoccupation was to live for the carnival that came once a year.

The carnival gave them purpose. Likewise, we planned with Christmas in mind. We said to each other, “PaChristmas ndoda kudai, ndigodai. . . .” We knew Christmas would always come. It didn’t dawn on us that maybe Christmas might come and find us gone! We never wanted to think of that part of life. We do not even want to think about it now.

Christmas was a day when being generous came effortlessly. So as little boys, we went on eating adventures. We started at my house, then Taonga’s, then Venge’s, then Joe’s, then. . .

We ate and ate and ate until we could feel the food making its painful way down our overcrowded gullets. We ate until we stuck finger deep down our throats to evict unwanted food from our stomachs and pave way for more. We ate because we knew that one day, many months after Christmas, we would regret not eating when we had the food.

Now that I have grown up, I now realise that I am the relative that little boys and girls are waiting for in the village. I know how disappointing it is for the city relative to fail to turn up in the village with new clothes and goodies. I now know that Christmas is a time of giving, not just things, but also ourselves.

Generosity is not just in giving goodies; it is also in our being there to see that old man and woman, whose Christmas means everything to them if their children and their grandchildren come and gather in the village to celebrate this day with them.

Musaemura Zimunya’s “Kisimiso’”captures what I am saying here more succinctly. Musaemura Zimunya is one of the most prolific poets in Zimbabwe. His poetic rendition of Christmas is iconic. “Kisimiso” and “Ifulaimachina” are some of his most light-hearted poems.

There is something about “Kisimiso” that demonstrates how Zimunya understands well the spirit of Christmas. Christmas is the most popular birthday in the world, although the birthday boy is virtually not invited to the celebrations! It’s a time for eating and drinking!

A.A. Milne

In fact, we do not even want to think about him. Where I grew up, the local pastor always (every year) encouraged us on the last Sunday before Christmas to come for church service on Christmas in order to remember the birth of Christ in worship. Every year he encouraged us to come.

Every year we disappointed him. We preferred celebrating Christ’s birth outside church walls. We preferred visiting our relatives. We preferred “hair-raising panga duels” with all the Aroma bread, rice and chicken.

We preferred going to the local township in the afternoon to walk around showing off our new clothes and spending the small fortunes of Zim coins that clinked in our pockets. We thought singing hymns and listening to sermons was against the spirit of Christmas.

So ideally Christmas is about Christ. But in actual fact Christmas, according to Zimunya’s persona; “means feasting/Dozens of bread loaves/Drums of tea/Mountains of sadza/Rock-size pieces of meat of the he-goat/In lakes of thousand-eyed soup.”

Where are Bible verses in this definition? Where are hymns in this definition? They are absent because “Kisimiso” is about these, and for many, beer. What a way of celebrating Christ!

The good thing is that the whole clan is gathered — sister from Harare who is ostensibly a seamstress; the brother from Bulawayo, who is ostensibly a big man in that city; and, these days, a couple of individuals from Jozi, who have assumed an affected South African accent when speaking.

When they hit you with “neh”, you suddenly discover how far behind you are. These make Christmas what it is. Without them, Christmas in the village is a lonely experience.

So, what happens to the hermit on Christmas? According to A. A. Milne, in the poem “King John’s Christmas”, Father Christmas always remembers them. King John is a very lonely fellow. No one shares candy with him. No one gives him crackers.

No one wishes him a happy Christmas. But when his hope for anything is down to zero, a miracle happens: “King John stood by the window/And frowned to see below/The happy bands of boys and girls all playing in the snow/A while he stood there watching/And envying them all/When through the window big and red/There hurtled by his royal head/And bounced and fell upon the bed/An India-rubber ball!”

Ironically, he had wished for this kind of gift earlier on. So where do you think it came from? Well, your guess is as good as mine! Even Christmas brings gifts for the hermit!

• From Musaemura Zimunya, A. A. Milne and myself, Merry Christmas! Stay safe. Don’t drink and drive.